


The Path to Heaven Is Paved With Fucks

by synonym4life



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Awesome Howling Commandos, Brooklyn, Captain America: The First Avenger Compliant, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Dry Humping, Feels, Humor, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Off Screen Sloth Sex, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Pre-War, Uniform Kink, Wall Sex, idek man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-16 12:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17549771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonym4life/pseuds/synonym4life
Summary: Steve Rogers has a filthy mouth—it's just a fact. "Language" and "watch your mouth" is something he hears on the daily. Too bad it didn't help in the past and it doesn't help now.tldr; Steve cusses his way through decades.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is basically best described as: Steve Rogers - a little shit turned troll. It is my first Stucky fic, so I hope you like it! 
> 
> The hugest thanks to the most wonderful beta tdcat and to gracie137, first, for getting me into Stucky and second, for being the best cheerleader anyone could ever wish for - this fic would not exist without her. <3
> 
> This will be posted in 3 chapters - all of them are already written - and I will be posting it in three consecutive days so you won't have to wait that long. I only wanted to break it up because I feel like readers need some breathing space in between the _feels _.__

“Fuck,” says Sam under his breath. He’s making his way through the cafe, a tray laden with muffins, cookies, and coffee heavy in his hand. He swears again when his hip collides with an unfortunately placed chair. Serves him right, Steve thinks, still bitter about losing their “no-let- _me_ -carry-it” competition.  

“Language,” he admonishes in his most authoritative voice when Sam finally makes it to the table in the corner. Steve takes great care in maintaining his scowl as Sam looks at him through narrowed eyes. A smirk almost slips through. Almost. Sam doesn’t know him well enough to notice yet.

“I have a feeling there’s a joke somewhere underneath,” Sam says, cocking his head to the side, “but I can’t figure out where.”

Steve lets up on the frown. Sam Wilson is turning out to being an observant bastard. Steve smiles and waves his hand. “No joke, it just comes automatically. Old, remember.” He gestures to himself. “Grew up in stiffer times. Besides, Ma didn’t raise no sinner.”

Sam’s eyes narrow further. “Hmm,” is all he says before slipping into his chair, grabbing the first muffin that comes to hand and bitingin. Steve follows suit, but starts off with a sip of coffee. He’s been enjoying hanging out with Sam. They make it a point to go running in Central Park at least three times a week. Most of those times end in a not-so-healthy splurge at Starbucks.

“Bet you used to swear like a fucking sailor,” Sam says around a large bite, grinning at Steve after he swallows. Two of his teeth are coated in chocolate.

Steve laughs. He really has a knack for finding friends that call him out on his shit. “Never,” he insists.

“Mhm,” Sam takes a sip of his venti iced-hazelnut-extra shot-something-something coffee, pointing a finger at Steve’s chest. “I’ll be listening closely from now on. See how well your mama really raised you.”

“You will hear no dirt leaving this patriotic mouth.” Steve raises his right hand—Scout’s honor—and keeps his eyes as honest as he can.

 

\----

  


“Jesus motherfucking bitch of a bastard pencil,” Steve almost throws the shitty piece of wood into the fire.

“Language,” Bucky says, flicking Steve’s ear. Steve bats his hand away frowning at the broken tip.

“Fuck this pencil—” Bucky tries to flick his ear again, but Steve pushes his hand away more violently this time, “—and fuck this motherfucking cow-filled country, and fuck this balls-freezing cold, and this fucking giant hand that can’t even draw right anymore.”

Steve shuts his mouth feeling a pang of shame. He shouldn’t be saying that. He likes this body, he’s healthier in this body, happier.  He feels Bucky’s hand touch his arm. Thank god the rest of the Commandos are asleep, or at least pretending to be. No one is looking their way to notice the way Bucky’s thumb traces Steve’s wrist.

He should be grateful for his new hand, new fingers, new body. He  _is_ grateful. He’s not sick anymore, he doesn’t hurt, he’s strong, capable, useful. All he ever wanted was to be useful instead of useless like he’d always been. Useless to his loved ones, to society - a burden. This self-pity is unfair. Who was he to deserve a new opportunity at life? Him rather than some other sickly kid in Brooklyn? Or Boston or Chicago. He doesn’t deserve any of this. But Bucky sits there beside him, like he understands, like he doesn’t think Steve is being selfish.

“Sorry.” Steve swallows. “I shouldn’t—”

“You’re allowed to feel like this, you know. Angry, frustrated.” Bucky isn’t looking at him. He’s staring at his fingers wrapped around Steve’s wrist. They used to wrap all the way around it. Now they grasp in vain.

“I’m not. I like this body. I’m grateful. I’m glad I have it,” he says, because he is. “It’s just...drawing was the one thing I was good at. The _only_ thing my old body was good at. The only thing it was useful for. It feels weird being this, this...”

“Perfect,” Bucky says, voice strained. Steve looks at him surprised.

“Yeah...well, yeah. Feels weird having this perfect body now and not being able to do the one thing I really enjoyed doing in my old one.”

“You’ll learn.” Bucky finally looks at him. “You’ll learn again. Just don’t fucking grip the pencils so tight when you feel like your drawing ain’t going as planned. And relax your jaw. What if they didn’t make your teeth strong enough to handle your jaw muscles? Good pencils in war might be hard to find, but I bet you false teeth are harder. ”

Steve laughs, bumping his shoulder into Bucky’s. “Maybe I should start collecting real teeth from the Krauts. Just in case.”

“I ain’t kissing cabbage smelling teeth even if they end up in your mouth.” Bucky says voice low and playful.

Steve casts a quick look at the sleeping forms around them. Keeping his ears trained for the faintest sounds of waking, he leans in until he’s only a few inches from Bucky’s face. “You haven’t kissed me in a real long time.”

Bucky’s pupils grow bigger, his eyes darkening with desire. His tongue slips out to wet his lips. God, Steve misses those lips. They’ve been on a mission for two weeks now, two weeks in the cold Italian mountains, trudging through mud and snow and deer shit and god knows what. Two weeks sleeping huddled together, rarely risking a fire like they did today. Two weeks of trying to pretend that when he presses against Bucky at night it’s for warmth only. Two weeks of keeping his distance and dreaming of that curvy mouth wrapped around his dick. Not a moment alone.

Bucky’s grip on his wrist tightens for a fleeting second, and then the heat in his eyes retreats along with his body as he pushes himself up to stand. He doesn’t have to say it out loud, Steve sees the ‘we can’t’ in his eyes clear as day. He sighs in frustration, pushing his hand through his hair.

“Better do a perimeter check,” Bucky says quietly. He’s about to turn away when he glances back once more. It looks like he’s struggling whether to speak or not. In the end he does. Bucky’s never been good at keeping his mouth shut.

“I hate what they did to you.” The look in his eyes is resolute. Unapologetic. “Got you all juiced up.”

“Why?” This is new. Bucky hasn’t said anything about it, and it’s been weeks after seeing Steve’s new form for the first time. Steve had thought Bucky would love it. That it would be a relief. After all, he’ll never have to watch over Steve’s pneumonia-wrecked body again. “They saved me. The serum, it saved me. It _is_ saving me.”

Bucky laughs, too rough to be anything other than mockery. Falsworth stirs, but doesn’t wake up. “Saved you.” Bucky deadpans. “Why, pray tell, are we then in this _motherfucking cow-filled country_ , with this _balls-freezing cold_ , more unsafe than we’ve ever been?”

“Because there’s a war going on, Buck. We owe it to the world to stop it.” Steve should have known this was what it was going to come down to. Bucky’d always worried about him too much, and the mission they were gearing up to was going to be brutal. They were all dreading tomorrow.

“Exactly. And you should have stayed _put._ ” Bucky jabs a finger in his direction. “So, yeah, I hate that body, and so should you.”

Steve doesn’t want to fight. Not about this. Not when they can’t change anything. They’re all high-strung. Bucky especially, after Azzano. There’s something fidgety about him that wasn’t there before. Steve thinks it’s the nightmares, but Bucky refuses to talk about it, so he watches and observes, looking for cues.

“Do you really, though? Hate it?” Steve smirks, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere that’s settled between them. “Looked like you loved it when you last sucked on my new tit—”

Bucky jumps forward slapping a hand over Steve’s mouth. His eyes glance back, once, assessing how much he can get away with. Quickly, he bends his head until his lips are hovering by Steve’s ear. “Jesus fucking Christ, Rogers, you and your filthy fucking mouth.”

Steve’s eyes gleam in the firelight as he slips his tongue past his lips and licks Bucky’s palm in rebellion. He wants Bucky to know _exactly_ how filthy.

  


\-----

 

“No, Stevie, you can’t go out to play yet.” His ma’s hand sweeps his hair back from his forehead. “It’s barely been a week after your last bout of pneumonia. Your lungs are still healing.”

Steve doesn’t really understand what pneumonia is except that it makes his chest burn and his body shiver, and that he hates it. Hates it, hates it, hates it. Hates it because it makes his Ma more sad than he’s ever seen her, hates it because Bucky keeps telling him he’ll become a doctor and heal him, and Steve knows that’s bullshit because when Bucky last scraped his knee he cried because there was so much blood. Hates it because bodies aren’t supposed to be this weak.

“But Maaaa!” He pleads. He looks to the side where Bucky is standing in the door frame a football in hand. “Please!”

“No.” Her voice is firmer this time, but her hand stays just as gentle. “Your chest ain’t right yet.”

“Well then I hate this chest!” Steve cries, feeling his face get hot and angry. “I hate this goddamned chest, and I don’t wanna have it no more!”

“Steven Grant Rogers, you will not use language like that.” His Ma’s eyes go all strict, and Steve feels bashful all of a sudden. He glares at the floor but can’t keep his legs from shuffling. Ma’s fingers slip from his hair as she crouches down and takes his hands in hers.

“Listen to me well now, Stevie. You’re a better person than this.” She squeezes his hands softly, but her gaze is sharp. “I don’t care what you see or hear down there in the streets. You’re growing up into a good man, and good men use good language.”

Steve shuffles some more but finally looks at her stubbornly. “Well then I don’t wanna be a good man.” He knows he’s being petulant, but he wants to go out with Bucky and run and laugh and jump. His ma sighs.

“You already _are_ good. But in this world good takes courage, it takes practice, it takes dedication.” She turns his face up after he looks away. “Every day we decide to be good, Stevie. And sometimes we fail, but we must try again the next day. God might’ve made us good, but it ain’t easy to stay good. So we gotta try, okay. It’s our duty to keep ourselves good.”

“You ain’t need to worry ‘bout that Mrs. Rogers.” Bucky’s voice comes small but determined from the doorway. “I’ll keep ‘im good.”

Steve’s ma looks surprised. Steve doubts she forgot Bucky was there—Bucky’s always there—but she looks unsettled all the same.

“Oh, James,” she says. “Come here.” She gestures to him with one hand, keeping the other clasped over Steve’s. When Bucky comes over she clutches his hands in hers as well. “Don’t you go worrying about Stevie so much. You worry too much as it is. Just keep yourself good. Just keeping yourself good is more than enough.”

Bucky nods. “I’ll try.” He squares his shoulders and looks her straight in the eye. “But I ain’t letting him go bad either.”

 

\-----

  


“Gentlemen,” a familiar voice comes from Steve’s left and he shoots to his legs, all his attention immediately on the woman in front of him.

“Agent Carter!” Dum Dum shouts. Steve loves Dugan’s buoyant nature, but really, the only time this man ever stops being obnoxiously loud is when he’s lying in a bush preying on Nazis. In Steve’s opinion, it’s been much too long since their last mission. It’d be nice to go on another one, if only to shut Dugan up. “Fancy meeting you here, Agent. Been getting tired of these ugly faces.” Dugan waves at his companions.

Peggy smiles, her lips as red and as dangerous as always. “Stop fixing your mustache in the mirror so much then. You might realize not everyone’s as ugly as you.”

“Ouch,” Dugan says. He slaps his palm over his heart but follows it with booming laughter. “It’s good to see you’re just as mean as you were on the first day I met you.”

“Mean and getting meaner,” Peggy retorts, her eyes sparkling, and Steve is struck again by how beautiful she really is. Not pretty. Beautiful. From her warm brown eyes to her sharp tongue, from her disarming smile to her quick wit. The most beautiful woman he’s ever met.

“We finally going on a new mission?” Bucky interrupts, the question sharper than it has any need to be. Steve looks over at his best friend, but Bucky’s not looking at him; his gaze is trained on Peggy, seemingly nonchalant. Only Steve notices the flash of anger in the otherwise cool blue eyes. A great urge to sigh and roll his eyes overwhelms him. They’ve been through this a hundred times. Just because he finds Peggy attractive, it doesn’t mean anything. Peggy is beautiful, yes, but Bucky is all encompassing. Peggy is someone he could love, but Bucky, Bucky is someone he always will. His past, his present, his future. Eternity compared to a moment in time.

“With all due respect, shut your mouth, Sergeant,” Jones speaks up from the crate he’s sitting on. He and Falsworth have been playing cards for hours now, quiet bar from a few loud groans announcing who the loser of the round was. “I’ve been rather enjoying this Nazi-less time. I ain’t in no rush to go after those motherfuckers again.”

“Language,” Steve says mostly because Peggy is there, and he’s supposed to keep his soldiers in line. He knows Peggy has tough skin—she has to, being one of the only women around so many crass, and, frankly, shamelessly horny men—but Steve wants his soldiers to do better.

For a few seconds all goes quiet, all men turning to look at Steve with flabbergasted expressions on their faces. Then it all erupts into a fucking zoo.

“Language?!” Morita cries, high-pitched from disbelief.

“Booooooooooooo!” Dugan shouts, placing his hands to either side of his mouth to make the sound carry. Jones joins him, while Dernier throws the pants he’s been patching to the ground. “ _Ah,_ _quelle putain d’hypocrite_!”

He continues ranting in French, while Falsworth rants in English opposite a baffled Morita. All Steve catches is _as if_ and _British ladies_ and _swear_ and _as fucking much_. As if their reaction hadn’t already made Steve’s face heat up, the sight of Bucky slowly but steadily losing it makes him go red from indignation. As if it wasn’t _Bucky_ who kept reminding Steve about language all the time. As if it wasn’t _Bucky_  who kept throwing acorns and pebbles and twigs at the men every time any of them got out a cuss word harsher than a general fuck. As if it wasn’t _Bucky_ , who didn’t walk the walk of the talk he talked. Jerk.

 Later, after Peggy gives them the details of their mission, Steve finds Bucky smoking at the outskirts of the camp. He’s leaning on a tree, his head tilted up to a slowly darkening sky. It’s warm for spring, so all he’s wearing is the standard-issue shirt. The top few buttons are unbuttoned, and Steve can see the sparse few hairs on Bucky’s chest. He misses lazily running his fingers through them. He stops a few paces away, allowing himself a few moments to simply look. Soak in everything that Bucky is. Tired, peaceful, desperate, angry, thoughtful, kind, worried, beautiful, everything. He’s everything.

Steve can tell Bucky knows he’s there even though Steve’s still out of his line of sight. He takes a slows drag of the cigarette, blows the smoke out even slower, the edges of his lips settling into that familiar curl. Steve’s heart thuds emptily in his chest. God, he loves. He loves so much.

“Buck,” he says softly. He has to get this off his chest. Bucky must know. He must know _how much he loves_. “You gotta understand, me and Peggy, it’s nothing, Bucky. And it ain’t ever gonna be nothing. Just because I think she’s a fine looking dame—”

“We’ve been through this.” Bucky cuts him off.

“Well, then I don’t know what your problem is. She’s beautiful and she’s smart, a woman anyone would want. I look at her like any sensible man would. _You_ looked at her like that when you met her.”

“You really don’t get it do you?” Bucky throws the half-burnt cigarette to the floor. He must be more annoyed than he looks, spending valuable cigarette rations like that. “The problem isn’t that you look at her like that. The problem is she looks back at you like that too.”

“And I don’t care! I’ve already told you. I _don’t_ care!” Steve throws his hands up in the air, exasperated.

“Well, maybe you should!” Bucky raises his voice, finally abandoning his deceptively peaceful pose. “Maybe you should.” It’s softer this time, his eyes not meeting Steve’s.

“But I won’t. I won’t, Bucky. I’ve already chosen a long time ago. I’m done choosing.” Steve wants to step closer, but he doesn’t. They never know who’s watching. “So quit with this jealousy, it’s stupid.”

“Jealousy. You think it’s just jealousy that’s making me all mad at you, Rogers. Mad at me?” Bucky steps closer because apparently his anger makes him care less. His eyes look black in the darkness that’s fallen, but there’s no mistaking the fire in them. “I’m mad. I’m mad as hell. You could have a life with her, Steve. A proper life. A real one. So, yeah, I’m jealous. I’m so fucking jealous it fucking rips me to shreds whenever she smiles at you. But more than jealous, I’m mad. I’m mad at you ‘cause you have a chance at a good life and you won’t take it. And I’m mad at me ‘cause I can’t let you go.”

“Well, that’s fucking stupid.” Steve complains.

“Watch your mou—” Bucky starts saying, lifting his hand to give Steve the familiar flick on the ear. Steve catches his hand before it reaches its goal. On an impulse, he pulls Bucky farther in between the trees, into the darkness. He pushes him against a trunk of what looks like a century-old beech tree.

“Never,” Steve whispers, their mouths already too close as he tries to keep his eyes on Bucky’s without going cross-eyed. “I’m never watching my mouth when I’m around you. And get it into that stupid head of yours that I ain’t giving up on you. And I ain’t giving you up either.”

“Who’s stupid now?” Bucky’s palm is on Steve’s jaw, his thumb resting gently against his cheek. Steve must look confused at the question, as Bucky’s lips slide into a smirk. “Still using your mouth all wrong, when I’m right here.”

The last few words are but a ghost against Steve’s lips, and then Bucky is kissing him and it feels like it’s been years since he last kissed him instead of weeks. Steve lets out a gasp that, given the chance to form, would probably sound a lot like a very pathetic, very yearning version of Bucky’s name. When their tongues slip against each other Steve’s knees go weak, and for a moment everything slips away. The camp, the war, the responsibility. Like Bucky, instead of feeling like a moment in time, the kiss too, feels like eternity.

  


\-----

  


“Aliens. _Again_.” Clint’s voice is clipped.

"No, no, no, no,” Stark whines, while stomping his foot like a five-year-old. _Real mature,_ Steve thinks and makes sure his disdain is obvious from his face. ”I did not sign up for this!” Stark stomps his small feet some more.

“You kind of did,” Natasha tells him, reminding him that the Avengers initiative is a voluntary project.

“ _God_ ,” Stark whines, throwing his hands in the air. “Let me have my temper tantrum in peace, will you?”

Steve feels like no amount of years lived, in the ice or not, could prepare anyone for dealing with Tony fucking Stark. He restrains himself from rolling his eyes because he’s mature like that, but he can’t prevent his eyelids from closing for a second or two, praying for patience. He tries to steer the conversation back to the topic. “So, is this an actual threa—”

“Shhhhhh!” Stark interrupts, pressing his finger against his lips. “Still having it, Rogers, still having it,” Stark whispers.

Steve’s jaw squeezes so hard he hopes he’ll be able to unhinge it later. Clint, who’s the only one sitting down (lounging, really) while the others stand around the oval table, snickers. Steve fails to see the humor.

Thor, who had patiently waited, uncrosses his arms, nods as if Tony’s tantrum is perfectly understandable. “My intention wasn’t to distress you,” he says slow and clear. “But I thought it best to let you know. To answer your question, Steven, no, I don’t think this is an actual threat to your planet. For now.”

“What does that mean _for now_?” Natasha’s leaning on the table, but her arms have lost some of the tension they held before.

“It means that for now Asgard has the issue contained. The civil war on Vanaheim is in full swing but we’re trying to appease the situation. I only came here because one of our spies heard the rebels were searching for other realms to subjugate, and the Earth’s name was mentioned. Apparently…” Thor falters. “Apparently, Loki’s attempt gave them the impression that conquering your planet was...doable.”

“Well...fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” Tony is being helpful again, and Steve’s annoyance rises to new levels. Instead of them trying to evaluate the potential threat and devising further plans of action in case it comes to a fight, they’re dealing with crybaby Tony Stark who loses all pretense of being a grown man when Pepper is out of the room. That woman is literally the only thing holding this man together and by a few misplaced strings at that. Not that it’s her fault. Doing the god’s work, she is.

“Language,” Steve can’t stop himself from saying because he’s annoyed, and he might as well get some amusement out of this too. It’s unfair that only Clint’s having fun.

“Language? _Language_? Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony’s frustration rises and surpasses Steve’s. Steve fights down a self-satisfied smirk. He’ll play the righteous man Tony thinks he is and who irritates him so much and laugh about it later.

“Good men use good language,” Steve echos the words his mother used to say. Words he never truly believed. Bucky cursed like a drunkard cursing the Prohibition laws, and Bucky was the best man he’d ever known.

“ _Good men use good language_. Did you hear that? Write that down, Jarvis. Make a note for posterity. Words straight out of our pure-hearted virgin fossil.” Stark is really getting worked up now, and Steve has to fight down another smile when Natasha’s narrowed eyes meet his. “Never said a bad word in your whole damn life, did you? Maybe that’s why you’re so stuck up. Try it sometimes. Might soften that stick in your ass.”

There is something privately amusing about being considered a paragon of virtue in this brand new world. With Tony sniping about his ‘prehistoric virtuousness’, Steve feels closer to Bucky than he had since waking up. A private joke they’re sharing, Bucky’s mischievous eyes clearer in his mind than they’d been since 1945.  He can still clearly see Bucky’s shoulders starting to tremble from contained laughter and his mouth, though trying for nonchalance, pouting even more than usual.

“I can’t even curse the aliens now? Literally, is there a better, more noble excuse to say a few choice words than a potential alien invasion?” There was no one quite like Tony when it came to overreacting. “So, what? No more fucks, Cap? Fine, I’ll be a good man. _Falafel_!”

Thor sighs, pulls out a chair, and flops down, Natasha pushes off the table and takes herself to the water fountain. Clint just rolls his eyes. This is going well.

“Tony, shut u—”

“Fffffff-udge!”

“We should be devising strate—”

“Fffffff-unky flip flops.”

“Thor only has so much time, stop wast—”

“Fffffff-illadelphia’s ffff-uchsias!”

“You are an actual five-year—”

“Fondue!” Tony shouts at the top of his voice, and Steve can’t fight it anymore. Tony getting worked up is a treat in itself, but him screaming fondue brings up an echo of an old (admittedly embarrassing) memory, and Steve’s shoulders start to shake. When that happens there’s no force in the world that could stop the laughter bursting out of him.

Tony stops waving his hands. “Oh my god, are you fucking with me? Were you fucking with me?” Steve nods, exchanging an amused look with Natasha. Clint is snickering again, and Thor looks even more radiant than normal.

“Jarvis, write this down, too. Captain America’s a jerk.” Tony waves his hands at the ceiling like he always does when talking to his AI.

“Do I put it in the I’m Having A Fit folder or Avengers’ Profiles folder?” Jarvis’s voice is innocent, but Steve’s long suspected Jarvis derives more human amusement than he lets on.

“Jarvis!” Tony squeaks. “You’re not supposed to say that out loud!”

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Jarvis says, actually sounding deeply remorseful.

“Anyway.” Tony waves his hand dismissively. “Make a new folder. Cap’s A Jerk. I feel like I’ll need it.”

Steve smirks. Tony’s right. He’ll probably need it.

“I was pulling your leg, Tony.” He nods, smiling, but then lets his face fall back into a more serious expression. “But I also kind of meant it. _Language_.”

“Well, fudge yourself!”

  



	2. Chapter 2

When Peggy tells Steve most of the 107th was captured in Azzano and Colonel Phillips follows it with an affirmation that Sergeant Barnes is dead, Steve’s mind splits in two. One part alternates between _No, no he can’t be dead_ and _Please, please don’t let him be dead_ , while the other zeroes in on the only option he’s got left. Find Bucky. He concentrates on that one because the alternative simply isn’t bearable. With the mission clear in his head—even though the plan of action is yet to be determined—the world suddenly comes into sharp focus. The edges of every single thing he sees become pronounced, the rain splattering against the canvas of the tent separated entirely from the rain splattering against a jeep somewhere outside. Every single smell, more vivid and simultaneously more separate than ever before.

A few hours later, he’s on a small plane with Howard Stark and Peggy and all he can do is clutch at hope when he jumps out into the night pierced by flashes of light as shots ring around him.

It isn’t until he quietly drops the guard above the containment cells to the floor that he realizes he’s never done this before. He doesn’t know if the two soldiers he threw from the back of the truck earlier had died. He doesn’t think so. He supposes the one he hit with the shield didn’t either. He’s less sure about the one whose head he smashed between the door. But he’s certain about this one. This guard was dead before he hit the floor. The snap of his neck reverberating all the way to Steve’s shoulders was proof enough.

Steve thought it would feel different. More noble, somehow. It felt inconsequential. Trivial in the light of _please, don’t let him be dead_ and _I gotta get him out_. He would kill this man a hundred times over and then a hundred times more and then he would kill every single one who would dare breathe in the space between him and the possibility that Bucky was still alive. Everyone said that war taught men their ugly truth and maybe this was his. That his nobility ended where his selfishness began. And when it came to Bucky, he’d always been _oh so very_ selfish.

One of the prisoners tells him no one’s ever come from the isolation cell where they took the Sergeant, and Steve is running, blindly running around trying to find the cell because if there’s anyone who would survive something like that it would be Bucky, and he would do it purely out of spite. Steve could just hear him. “Oh, no one ever came outta there? Gotta try show ‘em wrong, don’t I?”

A small man appears at the end of the hallway Steve’s just run into and he’s about to take off after him when something alerts his senses. He doesn’t know if it’s intuition or his sharpened focus working its superserum magic but it makes him rush into a room off the hallway. Only a few paces in and dread makes his step falter. There’s a body strapped to the table. _No, no, no, no no, please please please_ his mind screams as he steps up to the table and it’s Bucky and he’s not moving ( _oh, god, no_ ) but then he is, he’s moving and his chest is rising and Steve’s sharp ears can hear his heart beating and relief floods him like a golden wave and for a second he almost crumples onto Bucky’s chest to be consumed by the beat of his favourite heart. There’s still hell to get out of, though, so he unstraps him. Bucky’s faint “ _Steve”_ is all he needs to let Steve know he’ll be alright. They’ll be alright.

“God, I thought you were dead,” he hears himself say.

“I thought you were smaller.”

An overwhelming urge to laugh, hysterically, grips him because this is Bucky. But Bucky has trouble standing and for the first time he’s the one leaning into Steve instead of the other way around. Steve’s world tilts. Bucky is so weak. For the first time it really dawns on him that it’s not him who smells like blood, it’s Bucky, and his eyes are far too dilated to be normal even in the somber darkness of the room.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Buck.” He grips him around the waist and starts half-walking, half-hauling him out of the cell. “What the hell did they do to you?”

Bucky looks at him in what Steve recognizes as his scolding expression, but he’s a bit too dopey to really pull it off. “Still using the Lord’s name in vain, I see,” he says. Steve doesn’t miss the fact that the flick of the ear is missing.

“Not at all,” Steve pants a bit as he tries to make them walk faster. Bucky, once off the torture table, seems to be regaining his balance quickly. “Just casually discussing about that one guy Jesus who’s fucking his pal Christ.”

“So am I Jesus or am I Christ?” Bucky’s smile is a bit strained but his eyes are sparkling.

“Depends.” Steve smirks. “Do you feel like topping or not?”

“Honestly, neither.” Bucky is mostly walking by himself now but Steve hovers by his side ready to react at every wince, in case Bucky’s knees betray him. “Don’t think my dick would work right now.” 

“Virgin Mary then.” 

A hitched laugh escapes Bucky’s chest as he swats his hand at Steve. Steve grins and grips his excuse for a shield tighter, knowing that no matter what happens with the world, this is what he will always fight for.

 

\-----

 

 

Steve lets the warm water run over his hands, watches as the crusted blood mixes with it and fades from dark red to faint pink as it hits the white sink walls. He pushes his forearms under the water flow, scrubbing at them, wincing when his fingers drag over the big clogs of blood sticking to the hairs. He wasn’t—he didn’t—he didn’t think there would be so much blood. He looks in the mirror and sees the angry gash on his cheek. One of those bastards sure knew how to use a knife. Too bad it ended up being used against him. He looks at himself properly: there’s blood in his hair too. His left ear. Neck. God, there’s so much blood. He didn’t plan on there being so much blood.

He doesn’t...know precisely what happened. Bucky had been avoiding him for months, refused to be found. So Steve went on a...cleaning spree, cleaning out Hydra one by one. It was tactical at first, getting rid of them to free the world from the bullshit they infested it with, but then somewhere along the way, with every new piece of information about the Winter Soldier revealed, he got so damn _angry_. And then today, finally, after weeks of searching, he found the vault, hidden in plain sight—those fuckers—and he...completely lost it.

All he remembers is his eyes falling on the chair just as a whole team of Hydra operatives ran in. All he remembers is blood boiling inside him, anger like he’d never felt before in his life, making his stomach almost violently sick. All he remembers is dropping his shield to the floor, the clang it made as it hit the concrete.

And then it wasn’t Captain America fighting but Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers with all the ugly anger inside him, all the bitterness, all the despair. He remembers slashing and punching and kicking and slashing again, even when it was more than obvious that it wasn’t needed anymore. Stabbing again just to drive the fucking point home. Drive it in right through the heart one more fucking time.

He takes a ragged breath, running his hand through his hair. His palm comes away red again. He pushes it under the water when a loud bang comes from the entrance hall. A crash, the sound of wood splintering. He looks around wildly, grabs the knife he threw into the tub, scrambles for the gun on the floor and runs out. The fact that his apartment is an open floorplan means he makes his way to the living area quickly. Once there, he stops, rooted to the spot. The gun he’s been about to aim at the man standing in the middle of his living room falls to his side. 

“Bu—” his voice cracks. “Bucky,” he tries again. 

“Shut up.” His voice is gruff, from disuse or emotion, Steve can’t tell. Bucky looks...well, not much like Bucky used to look but still so _Bucky_ Steve wants to fall to his knees and beg him not to fucking run again. His clothes are...normal, for the lack of a better word. He’s wearing a red sweater, jeans, a baseball cap. His hair is still as long as it used to be, but his jaw and cheeks are scruffier. He looks healthy, though. Big. Steve doesn’t remember Bucky being so big. It was different when he was in his Winter Soldier gear, more expected. Now in normal clothes, he seems even bigger. Steve wonders if that’s how Bucky felt when he saw Steve’s new body all those decades ago. _Juiced up_ , he used to tell him. 

All Bucky did was tell him to shut up and now he simply stands there, staring. Steve can’t bear the silence.

“Buck—”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Bucky’s face is unreadable when he says it, but his voice is stiff. He opens his mouth to ask what exactly Bucky’s problem is, even though Steve probably knows what’s bothering Bucky better than Bucky knows himself.

“I don’t kno—”

“I said shut up.” The gleam of the metal hand as it squeezes into a fist catches Steve’s eye. He’d almost forgotten that was there. Bucky’s entire arm. Gone. Replaced. Weaponized.

“You asked me what I was doing, Buck. I wanted to respond. I’m gonna need clearer instructions, here.” Steve doesn’t know why he’s being difficult, but his tongue runs into familiar bickering from days long gone.

“You were about to pretend you don’t know what I was referring to, so shut up.” Bucky glares at him. Steve almost smiles. “My memory might be like a fucking spaghetti sieve, but I remember what a stubborn little shit you were.”

Steve really smiles then. Bucky, on the other hand, looks confused at where all that came from. It looks like he remembered it out of nowhere.

“What the fuck have you done?” Bucky repeats again. “I followed you, I watched you on the cameras, what the hell were you thinking? You left a fucking—a fucking butcher house. You shouldn’t. You aren’t _supposed_ to—”

Bucky runs his palm over his mouth nervously. He looks so lost. As if he isn’t even sure of what he’s saying. Or why.

“I’m not supposed to?” Steve tries to drag out the ending of that thought, while trying to process the fact that Bucky had been following him all along. Saw Steve’s ugly anger, saw the worst that Steve’s heart could muster.

“No!” Bucky shouts, his eyes wild, and Steve realizes for the first time just how fucked up Bucky’s head is. Bucky takes a step closer. “No, you aren’t _supposed_ to. You shouldn't. Killing. Mindless spree. Heartless. You’re not supposed to. Be _bad_.”  The last few words are whispered as if Bucky’s surprised about them coming out.

As soon as the words are spoken, Steve plummets back to a summer day, sweltering heat rising from the concrete, a small breeze gracing them with its freshness on the rooftop and Bucky talking shit beside him. Just like then, he becomes instantly annoyed.

“Jesus Christ, Buck. What the hell do you want me to do? I lost it, okay? I fucking _lost it_ when I saw what they did to you. What do you wanna hear? Bad has always been a part of me, you just never wanted to fucking see it. When will you fucking realise I’m no fucking better than you. Eighty years, brain addled, and _that’s_ what you remember? Goddamn it!”

Bucky probably doesn’t understand what Steve’s saying or why, but something about what he says causes Bucky to sway on the spot, his flesh hand twitching. His eyes move from Steve’s lips to his ears and back, his lips moving silently. His eyes, still wild, are far away. Memories, Steve realizes. Memories, fleeting fast and vivid through Bucky’s mind. He sways again, then stumbles for the splintered door. Steve moves toward him, but Bucky shakes his head violently, waving his metal arm vaguely into the direction of Steve’s head.

“You.” He waves his hand again. “You, sonuvabitch.” He shakes his head. “Cuss too fucking much.”

With a last wave of his hand he disappears through the door. Steve slides to the floor not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He settles on both.

 

\-----

 

Peggy leaves. Steve knows that perhaps he shouldn’t have made her go, that perhaps he shouldn’t be left alone with a bottle of bad alcohol that can’t get him drunk, but he can’t stand looking into her compassionate eyes. Not when he doesn’t deserve her compassion. Not when it was his fault that Bucky fell. He gulps down some more of the terrible whiskey and then, before he knows, he’s throwing the bottle against the room, the shattering of the glass harmonizing with the scream that tears from his chest.

He gets up, stumbles towards the door and trips on a piece of wood. He catches himself on the wall, crumbles against it, his forehead touching the cool stone, searching for relief. “Fuck,” he whispers, hot, burning tears prickling in his eyes. “Fuck!” he screams into the empty room slamming his fist into the wall, once, twice, three times, four times, five, six, he stops counting but continues to pummell the stone until he knows his fists are bleeding, until he knows his knuckles are cracked, until it _actually_ hurts, and then he pounds it some more because the answering “ _Language, Steve_ ” and the accompanying flick of the ear doesn’t come and never will.

Finally, the burning tears start to spill, along with snot and blood, and he slides down to his knees, the pain that he kept in his chest spilling out into his lungs, into his heart, into his arms and legs and body, into his throat, his throat that’s making these sounds it shouldn’t be able to make. Crying, mewling, _pleading_ , like a dying animal who knows life is over but still tries to beg it back.

 

**\-----**  

 

The sun is beating down on the concrete as hard as it can on an August afternoon. The whole of Brooklyn, all red brick and metal, is distorted by the lighting bending on the shimmers of heat fluttering through the air. Steve and Bucky are lying on the floor of the roof, secluded in the bit of shadow provided by a large chimney. Steve has been attempting to draw Bucky’s portrait for the past hour or so, but the sweat keeps dripping from his forehead onto the paper, smudging it. Bucky watches as Steve gets more and more frustrated. It’s not just the heat that’s ruining the drawing. It’s also the fact that Steve can never quite get Bucky’s mouth right.

“Urgh!” Steve grumbles, giving up.

“Language,” Bucky says, smirking.

“I didn’t even say nothing!” Steve plops down next to him, indignant.

“I saw you cussing with your eyes.” Bucky looks at him sideways. He’s smiling. Of course, Steve can’t fucking get that mouth right. It’s impossibly curved.

“You keep ragging on me for it when you cuss just as much,” Steve tells Bucky what he’s probably told him a thousand times already. Ever since they were seven years old probably. “Good men use good language,” Bucky often repeated Steve’s ma’s words. For now, Steve could still reply he was no man yet. He’d have to come up with a new response in a few years.

“I know Stevie, but you’re better than me.” Bucky is looking at Steve in the way he sometimes looks at him when Steve is sick. Like he’s something to be protected. And like that’s Bucky’s duty to do so. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Why do you keep _saying_ that? I’m not better than you. Not one ounce. I’m a punk, remember?” Steve feels like this is something he’ll have to keep telling Bucky his entire life. Bucky’s stupid like that sometimes. Stubborn too. Good thing Steve’s more of both of those.

“You are a punk,” Bucky laughs, but his eyes turn serious when he looks at Steve again. “But it’s true, Stevie. Your heart is stronger. Your whole soul is good. There’s not an ounce of bad inside you. You must keep being good. You can’t allow me to make you ugly. You gotta promise me that. Don’t ever let me make you ugly.”

“How could you make me ugly with a face like that?” Steve counters because Bucky’s being stupid. There’s a pleased glint in Bucky’s eyes when he smiles.

“Thought my face was stupid? You were just saying earlier, trying to draw me.” Bucky’s eyes are mischievous.

“Yeah, well.” Steve grumbles. “Still pretty.” He looks away from Bucky’s face at the clear blue sky, hoping he didn’t say something weird. It’s objectively true that Bucky’s face is pretty after all. Steve’s not blind.  

“Too bad Betty from down the block don’t think that.” Bucky’s voice is wry with self-deprecation. Steve laughs.

“What’d she tell you again?” Steve tries to recall Bucky’s failed attempt at flirting with years older Betty Miller.

“That I looked like a gaping fish someone hit one too many times.” Bucky’s shoulders shake next to Steve’s. Steve smirks at the memory. Betty also called him a child right after and told him to go suckle on his ma’s tit for a bit longer. Quite the lady, Betty was. 

They fall quiet, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere of the roof. The slight breeze is making it slightly easier to breathe in the heat rising from the streets below. They’re only wearing their undershirts and their skin is disgustingly sticky where their shoulders are touching. Steve doesn’t feel like pulling away.

“Hey,” Bucky speaks after a while. “You didn’t promise me, Steve.”

“I’m not promising a stupid thing like that. Not when I don’t agree with a word you said.” Bucky sighs, resigned. Steve traces the lone cloud with his eyes for some time, before he takes Bucky’s clammy hand in his. He squeezes his fingers. “You’re good, Bucky. You’re so good that you make me better. Don’t ever forget that.”

 

\-----

 

Steve holds the wheel of the car as gently as he can while his annoyance ascends like a fucking rocket climbing to the moon. In the span of the few seconds he’s let his mind wander, his grip on the wheel tightens anew, and he has to consciously loosen it up, else Sam’s car will become wheel-less. Again. He inhales through his nose, lets out his breath through his mouth, focuses on the road, on the flow of traffic, on the dog in the rear window sticking out its tongue, on the tree starting to color orange.

The dull thumping continues.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._ Pause. _Thump._

Sam, sitting in the passenger seat, hardens his jaw while his stubborn scowl only deepens. Otherwise, he doesn’t move an inch.

A louder thump sounds from behind, followed by a low growl.

“Seat,” Bucky snaps, punching the seat in front of him again.

“No,” Sam answers.

Steve looks in the rearview mirror. Bucky is glowering at the back of Sam’s headrest. His legs are pressed almost completely against his chest. Sam had pushed his seat even farther back this time, so Bucky couldn’t even hope to get more than his ankles between Sam’s backrest and his own seat. Steve had smartly decided not to comment on it and let them resolve the issue themselves. They said parents shouldn’t meddle in their children’s disputes, right? And a children’s dispute was exactly what this was, and Steve has never felt more like an exhausted mother in his entire life.

“Seat,” Bucky grumbles, followed by another punch. Alas, the issue didn’t seem to be resolving itself too well.

“No,” Sam counters.

“Seat.”

_Thump_

“No.”

“Seat.”

_Thump_

“No.”

“Seat.”

_Thump, thump, thump_

“N—”

“Will you two shut the fuck up already!” Steve throws his hands in the air, and it’s a good thing too or else the wheel would most definitely stop being round and more likely start resembling an amoeba.

“LANGUAGE!” The two bastards shout in unison then laugh, Sam loud and deep, Bucky quieter and meaner.

A sound that sounds a lot like _aaargh_ escapes from Steve’s throat. When he sees the look Sam and Bucky exchange in the mirror, the urge to re-articulate the groan into a few more choice words grips him; Bucky is smirking, his eyes crinkled in satisfaction, and Sam’s mouth is open in an unapologetic grin.

“You two,” Steve points at them with his thumb, “are the fucking worst. I should never have let you meet.”

Bucky smirks some more, Sam’s grin just grows bigger. As if Steve won’t see, Sam slowly reaches back, and a flesh and metal hand meet in a victorious fist bump.

 

\-----

 

_Thump._

It’s a soft sound, flesh meeting flesh in a punch. Before Steve ever got his first one he thought the sound should be more dramatic. Now he knows the muted punches often hurt the most. Another _thump_ comes from a few feet over, the final one, Steve sees through his swollen eye. The bully scatters after his friend, who wasn’t brave enough to try to fight Bucky. Steve hates that Bucky always gets involved, but there’s no denying that Steve would’ve been dead by now if he hadn’t. He’s on his knees, trying to rise when strong hands pull him up in a practiced motion. There’s a handkerchief shoved forcefully into his hand. Bucky’s glaring at him, but his arm is firm around his waist.

“Sorry,” Steve says, looking away from Bucky’s angry eyes. He’s not sorry for fighting the two assholes, he’s only sorry for dragging Bucky into this again. He dabs at his mouth with the handkerchief, wincing.

“You’re not sorry one damned ounce.” Bucky sighs. “Not every fight is your fight, Steve.”

“That’s exactly why the world is as it is.” So they’re doing this again. The same conversation they’ve had a thousand times. He tries to glare back at Bucky but isn’t sure how successful he is, with one eye almost completely swollen up. “That’s why innocent people get hurt, Buck. Because everyone thinks like this. ‘It’s not my fight,’ they say and raise their hands as if there’s nothing to be done. But if everyone who saw something bad happening said something, did something, it would turn out there are more good people in the world than there are bullies. Now it just seems like bullies are winning. Because everyone is too much of a goddamn wuss to take a stand.”

“Don’t you use that filthy mouth on me after I just got your ass out of being beaten into a pulp.” Bucky’s jaw is tight, the tendons in it dancing.  Steve pushes him away, sure that he’ll be able to stand on his own. He sways a bit but manages. Bucky’s not done ragging on him yet. “Are you completely mad? I’m sick and tired of being your cleaning lady. A fucking cleaning lady with fists, sweeping up the bullies your skinny ass leaves behind.”

Shame and guilt make Steve’s stomach clench. Bucky’s right. He keeps getting into fights he knows he cannot finish, keeps relying on Bucky to get him out. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he always counts on Bucky. More than anything, he’s ashamed of that. Not that he keeps dragging Bucky into it, but that he, in a twisted sense, expects him to come.

“What was it about this time, huh?” Bucky crosses his arms. “A cat? A nasty word? A dame?”

“A queer,” Steve replies quietly. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “That queer boy Bobby from two blocks down.” His eyes flick up to Bucky’s, but he’d averted his gaze. His stance is stiff. “Listen,” Steve continues, “no one deserves this. No one should get beaten up like that.”

“Well, he got no business being queer then, does he?” Bucky’s eyes return to Steve’s, hard, shuttered.

“He can’t help it!” Steve throws his hands in the air, desperate, suddenly, to make Bucky understand.

“Yes, yes he can.”

Silence settles between them as they stare at each other. Steve knows they’ve stopped talking about Bobby, knows they’ve just prodded at something raw, a bruised spot that had grown between them over the years. Steve’s not stupid. He’d noticed. He noticed, perhaps before he even fully understood. The more they grew from kids into men, the more he was aware of how their touches had changed, became charged somehow, jumpy when they were aware of it, lingering when they weren’t. Then all those girls came. And Steve didn’t doubt it, Bucky liked girls alright, he knew he did. Steve didn’t mind girls either, if any of them would want him. But he also couldn’t deny the hot anger that burned inside him whenever he was reminded that someone touched Bucky in all the ways he wanted to but couldn’t.

Steve wants to scream at Bucky, wants to punch him himself, wants to fucking cave his nose in, when all Bucky does is turn away and starts walking out of the alley. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his steps heavy, head hanging.

“Not everyone can, you know!” Steve calls after him stubbornly. “Help it, I mean.”

Bucky stops and turns. He’s close enough that Steve can still see his expression. Accusing. “Well, maybe he should try harder.”

“No.”

“For fuck’s sake, Steve.” Bucky runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t even try hide the desperation in his voice. “You can’t save everyone, but at least fucking try to save yourself.”

Steve looks at the ground, kicks a can that’s lying by his feet, but otherwise stays quiet. _No_ , he thinks softly at the back of his head. This isn’t something he needs saving from.

 

\-----

 

“Mr. Rogers,” rings from the ceiling just as Steve’s about to pour himself a glass of milk. It splashes down the wrong side of the glass and onto the table. No matter how long he’s spent in the Avengers Tower he’ll never get used to Jarvis’s disembodied voice popping up after hours of silence.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, Sir.” Jarvis apologises. “But Mr. Stark is adamant that you meet him in the common room downstairs. I think he just found out about our elaborate prank.” A pause. “Who would have thought it would last this long.”

“He’s lasted how long?” Steve asks. Looking at the watch on his wrist, he says, “Ah, thirty five minutes,” just as Jarvis says “Thirty three minutes, Sir.”

“Well, I am duly impressed.” Steve thought Tony would last ten minutes max. He smiles and rubs his hands. Oh, this’ll be fun.

“Buck!” Steve calls further into their apartment. He doesn’t know where Bucky is, might be taking a bath, might be knitting, might be doing any other of his therapist’s suggestions on how to reclaim his personality and curate his interests now that his mind is healing. “Sorry to interrupt, but Tony’s asking for us downstairs!”

There’s a decisive grunt and then some shuffling and Steve knows Bucky’s coming. Tony technically didn’t ask for Bucky to be there, but Steve's not going to be the person to deprive Bucky of Tony-related entertainment.

When they come downstairs, Tony’s standing in the middle of the common room, which is strewn with comfortable couches, bean bags, rugs, and blankets. Bookshelves line one entire giant wall from floor to ceiling—Bucky’s favorite thing about the room. Two other walls are all glass, looking down on Lego-sized New York, and one is equipped with the best-stocked bar in the tower.

Tony is fuming. Steve’s amazed that he hasn’t started stomping yet. Character growth.

“What’s up,” Steve says lightly. Bucky only nods in acknowledgment of Tony’s presence. He and Tony went over a rough patch two weeks ago when Tony became a bit too handsy with Bucky’s metal arm.

“Don’t you ‘what’s up’ me.” Tony snaps. He uncrosses his arms but crosses them again the other way. “You know exactly _what’s up._ You’re the one who did this! And I’ll give you that, your pre-historic brain’s pretty witty, but I will never forgive you for tricking Jarvis into siding with you. I told him to stop, I threatened to reprogram him, but Jarvis isn’t fu—” he cuts off on the swear word, bares his teeth almost in a snarl and breathes in short and sharp through his nose. Steve has to stifle an actual giggle. Tony grits his teeth. “Jarvis isn’t cooperating. You’ve turned him against me!”

“Untrue, Sir,” Jarvis’s voice sounds from the ceiling, kind as always. “Mr. Rogers and I merely made a pact.”

“Jarvis, I made you too fuc—” Tony jerks his head, “—I made you too smart for you not to know that’s exactly the same thing since you’ve made a pact _against_ me.”

Steve looks at Bucky while Tony continues arguing with his AI about the definitions of ‘pact’ and ‘treason’ and the virtues of loyalty. Bucky’s head is cocked to one side, his lips pursed. His eyes are on Steve, suspicious, but expectant. Almost amused. Then again, anything that riles Tony up is sure to amuse everyone anyway, if only for how funny he looks when he’s angry.

“Arghhh!” Tony screams, throwing his hands up in frustration as he loses another argument to Jarvis. He really did make him too smart. Jarvis could win a fight while claiming the earth is flat, knowing full well he was spouting bullshit all along. “You!” He points at Steve. “Fix it!”

“But, Tony,” Steve says in his most innocent voice. Bucky’s eyes narrow further. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“You—” Tony points at him, “— _beep_ —stupid, annoying— _beep_. I can’t even swear in my own— _beep_ —house anymore? You are— _beep_ —censoring my— _beep_ —right to— _beep_ —express myself.”

Character growth goes to hell as Tony starts stomping his feet for real now, loud piercing _beeps_ sounding from all around them, from every speaker in the ceiling, in the walls, whenever Tony says a swear word.

It’s all worth it, though, when Bucky howls with laughter. Steve, who had been trying to hold it in himself, lets it out, and for the first time in what is probably decades he is laughing with his whole body. The tears gathering in his eyes start to spill when every single word Tony says becomes covered by a beep, and before long the whole room is ringing with one long obnoxious sound. 

Bucky’s metal arm is curled around his stomach. Steve sympathizes, as his own abs are burning too. With the other arm, Bucky grabs Steve’s shoulder in support. This is the first time in weeks that Bucky’s touched him in any way, and Steve feels elated. Even if he’s never getting it all back, he’s happy with this friendship, the easy, light way of how they fit into each other’s lives. That’s all he needs.

“God,” Steve wipes the tears from his cheeks. “Tony, I’m so sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “Me and Jarvis just thought it would be funny.”

“And we were right,” Jarvis says, voice warm. “I am very amused right now.”

Tony calms down until he only mildly looks like an angry Furby. Steve doesn’t even remember when he learned what a Furby is, but the fact that he knows tells him he’s learned all the important cultural references long ago and should have stopped trying at _The Godfather._  

“You— _beeep_ — _beep_ —holes.”

“Ok, Jarvis,” Steve gasps through another bout of laughter. “You can stop now. Thank you. This has been fun.”

“Indeed, Mr. Rogers. Anytime.” Jarvis kindly offers.

“Anytime? Fuck you, you asshole AI.” Tony says back to the ceiling. “Ahh, it feels good saying it again.”

Steve grins at Tony, knowing that the man can’t hold onto a grudge very long. He’ll be forgiven in no time. Probably already is. Bucky’s hand slips off Steve’s shoulder now that his laughter has died down, but he’s standing closer than before. Steve hasn’t felt this warm in a long time.

“Well,” Tony starts talking again because he’s Tony. “As much as I hate you right now—and don’t think you’re getting away with this, Rogers, I’ll think of a prank that will _ruin_ you—I am glad to see your buddy there can muster expressions other than a scowl. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his lips curl up instead of down. It’s good to know your upper teeth are there too, Barnes.”

“Yes, well, don’t get used to it,” Bucky says, trying to scowl at Tony again, but the effect is a bit ruined by the remnants of laughter in his eyes. It’s a bit ridiculous how giddy Steve feels at that.

“So what have you two lovebirds been up to besides trying to break my bed with super soldier fucking?”

Uhh, what? Steve feels his face start to warm up. Where did Tony get that idea. “What? We weren’t. We’re not.” Not that Steve doesn’t want to, but he and Bucky hadn’t even—god—he doesn’t even know if Bucky _remembers_. He remembers a lot of things now, from their childhood mostly, some from the war, but he never… Steve glances sideways...they never discussed this. And Steve is fine with it, he really is. He’s just so damn glad to have his friend back, his favorite person in the world, he doesn’t want Bucky to think he _has to_ , or that Steve presumes anything. And now Tony’s there throwing it in the open like a stinking bone.

“We’re not, actually,” Bucky says. Steve can’t read his expression, and he hates it. He used to know exactly what Bucky felt, but Hydra made his face a mask. He takes it off from time to time and Steve cherishes those moments but when Bucky doesn’t want you to know what he’s thinking, he puts it back on effortlessly.

“I mean you two can pretend all you want.” Tony plops down on the couch. “But the incessant headboard banging really speaks for itself. The fucking tapping goes through my mostly, but obviously not really, soundproof walls.”

“Oh,” Steve says, relieved. He thinks he knows what this is about. “The tapping.” He looks at Bucky, unsure whether it would be okay to tell Tony or not. Bucky clears the dilemma by speaking himself.

“I took up tap dancing,” he tells Tony. “I like to practice in the evenings.”

“You.” Tony snorts. Bucky scowls harder. “You took up tap dancing? Ha!”

“I did.” Bucky crosses his arms daring Tony to say more. Too bad Tony never backs down from a dare.

“You, the big bad murder boy, took up— ” Tony’s openly laughing now, “— _tap dancing_? Oh, this is just brilliant. Can I come watch? I’d have the time of my life. Better than any comedy show. Tappy, tappy, tap tap, the murder boy’s a sap.”

Bucky grunts, glowers at Tony’s shit-eating grin and turns to stalk out.

“Noo, Barnes, where are you going? Come back and do a jig. I’ll even clap at the end!” Looks like karma is already after Steve, as it’s now Tony clutching his stomach from laughter. Bucky disregards him entirely and only stops at the door to scowl at Steve in an ‘are you coming or what?’ way and, without waiting for him, continues walking. When Steve catches up to him in the hallway, Bucky grunts again. 

“Should have just let him think we’re fucking,” is all Bucky says for the rest of the day, but from that moment on, every time they’re in the same room, Steve feels Bucky’s heavy gaze on him. He never catches him, but he feels it on his back when he’s scrubbing the dishes, he feels it on his thighs when he’s sitting on the couch, he feels it on his lips when he takes a sip of coffee. It makes his skin tingle.

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
Bucky stumbles in through the creaking door and, without taking off his shoes or coat, continues to the bedroom. Steve looks up from his sketch, his mouth halfway to telling Bucky’s drunk ass off for barging in with muddy boots, but Bucky is at the edge of the bed already and Steve can’t find it in him to bitch about it when his heart gives a muted pang at Bucky’s disheveled look.

His tie is undone, hanging loose around the neck of the half-unbuttoned shirt. He smells of cigarettes and alcohol and perfume. Steve’s chest tightens. Bucky’s eyes are clear, clearer than one might think they could be after all that stumbling. He’s looking at Steve like he’d looked at him so many times before. Just as many times as he’d denied it. His mouth is red, smudged with lipstick. Steve hates the sudden feeling of gratitude towards the girl that put it there tonight. Bucky looks downright sinful with his lips all red and ravished.

“Hey,” Steve says, gripping the pencil in his hand tighter.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky whispers, and his hand is in Steve’s hair, like so many times before, petting, caressing. “Why are you still up?” he asks as if Steve isn’t always up, waiting for Bucky to come back home after a night out.

The look Bucky’s giving him, the familiar, yet fleeting look he’s always quick to hide, bar on nights when alcohol impairs his judgement, spreads like heat inside Steve’s chest. He knows that look, personally, intimately. It’s a look he often spies on himself. Longing.

“Oh, you know,” he tries for nonchalance. “Had to stay up in case I had to save you from a brawl.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh and smiles, lopsided and honest, his thumb tracing across Steve’s forehead. Steve doesn’t want him to ever let go.

“Bucky,” he whispers and he knows he’s pleading, begging, like an idiot wanting something that he shouldn’t want, wanting something that he shouldn’t ever have. But he can’t stop himself from wanting. Even if someone cut out his heart, it wouldn’t stop him from wanting because he wants Bucky everywhere, every corner, every crease, and every cell.

Bucky shakes his head and snatches his hand from Steve’s hair in a moment of sobriety. “No,” is all he says, pushes a hand through his own hair, messing it up further, and marches off towards the bathroom.

Steve lets his eyes fall closed, his scalp tingling. Fuck this shit. Fuck it. He throws back the covers and pads to the bathroom, hesitating momentarily in front of the door before pushing it open. Bucky’s just taking off his tie. He glances at Steve, throws the slippery string of fabric in the corner and turns to the mirror. Steve steps into their small bathroom, cramping the space further.

“Buck.” He meets the clear blue of Bucky’s eyes in the reflection. “I—Buck, please—”

“Don’t,” Bucky cuts him off, angry. Desperate. “Don’t do this. Just don’t.”

“Why?” Steve steps closer, feels the nervousness radiating off Bucky’s body in waves. Feels the heat.

“Because.” Bucky gulps. “Because if we do...I. If we do, there ain’t no going back.” He’s gripping the sink so hard the veins in his forearms stand out, blue and thrumming.

“I don’t care about going back. I don’t like it as it is anyway. I wouldn’t want to come back to it.” Steve feels the habitual wave of bullheadedness rise in him. “Why don’t you just...just let yourself.”

“Just let myself.” Bucky turns towards Steve then, fully, so much bigger and so much handsomer than Steve could ever hope to be. He’s trembling. “They’re already whispering about it behind our backs, you know. Two buddies in their twenties, not one of them with a serious girl. Living together. Who’s to know what they’re up to when the curtains are drawn. Fairies. They’re already sayin’.”

“Don’t mind that they do.” Steve raises his head. “They’re right.”

Righteous anger makes Steve’s heart pound faster. Why shouldn’t he have this. Why should it be wrong. Bucky never felt wrong. All that Bucky ever felt was right, fit like a glove around him, like that was where he belonged. Steve reaches up, cups Bucky’s jaw in his hand, can’t resist dragging his thumb over the corner of his mouth where the smudge of red is the brightest. “If this—” his voice catches in his throat, “—if wanting this makes me a fucking fairy, then I wanna be one.”

The fact that Bucky doesn’t so much as flinch at the cuss word shakes Steve to the core. Bucky always reprimands him for his filthy mouth. It’s become a habit, an almost automatic response. He doesn’t even hear it this time. God, Bucky’s scared. His eyes are panicked when Steve pushes him back, crowds against him. Bucky tries to resist, but it’s weak.

“You get the shit beaten out of you for just looking at people wrong.” Bucky’s grasping at the last straws of reason, his resolve visibly crumbling. Steve slides his thumb over Bucky’s lip, pulls it down, traces his finger over Bucky’s lower teeth. Bucky’s lips tremble. He turns his head away, letting Steve’s hand fall to his shoulder. “Just remember what they did to Bobby. That’ll be us if we let it happen.”

Bucky’s eyes make contact with Steve’s again. Afraid. God, he’s so afraid. Afraid for the both of them. Afraid for Steve because he knows Steve can’t muster up enough fear to protect himself, so Bucky does it for him. It’s not fair, really. Steve feels selfish, demanding even more from him, but god, he can’t be selfless about this.

“You know how they’ll know?” Bucky asks him, gripping Steve’s wrist hard, pleading. “You know how? ‘Cause I won’t be able to hide it. ‘Cause once we do this Stevie, my hands will keep reaching for you and _they’ll know_. They’ll know, ‘cause it won’t just be wanting anymore, it’ll be _having_ , and I’ll wanna have you all the time.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care Bucky. I can’t. I can’t go on like this,” Steve whispers. He pushes at Bucky’s chest and knows that Bucky’s given up; his body moves with the push and Steve follows, pressing himself against him when Bucky’s back hits the bathroom wall. “I want you. Don’t you want to be selfish for once?”

Steve’s hands curl around the collar of Bucky’s shirt, as Bucky’s arms slip around his waist, gripping him tight. Steve needs to tell him, he needs to let him know.

“I wanna fuck you. I wanna fuck you like I wanna fuck girls. I want you to fuck me like you fuck girls.” Steve’s staring directly into Bucky’s eyes, sees them dilate, sees Bucky’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat. Bucky opens his mouth, but Steve cuts him off. “No, I’ll say it. I’m done not saying it. I want, god, Bucky I want you so much.”

“Steve,” Bucky whispers. “Stevie.” Steve feels the heat between them that he didn’t feel before, distracted by his monologue. He feels how clammy his hands are, feels how his breaths rush out of his lungs.

“Kiss me.” His hand on the collar tightens, pulls. He’s only an inch away, Bucky’s breath soft against his lips. “Please, kiss me.”

The sound Bucky makes just before their lips meet couldn’t be described as anything other than a whine. Bitter about giving in but desperate to have it. For a while all they do is press their lips together, clutching at each other, pulling each other in, further, closer. Bucky’s lips move then, nudge Steve’s apart, and Bucky’s kissing him for real. Steve gasps. It’s everything. Everything he ever wanted because it’s Bucky. It’s not the best kiss — Steve hasn’t had much practice after all — it’s mediocre at best, too desperate and too sloppy to be anything else, but it’s perfect because it’s Bucky kissing him. It’s Bucky who cups the back of Steve’s head and tilts it. It’s Bucky who slips his tongue into Steve’s mouth.

Steve lets his leg slip between Bucky’s thighs. Before realizing he’s hard himself, he feels Bucky’s cock against his hip and moans. Fuck. He rubs against Bucky, making him moan too. It’s the best sound Steve’s ever heard. Low and quiet and strained. Steve bites Bucky’s lip before breaking the kiss. He lets his hips rut against Bucky’s leg, unable to stop, it feels so good, the pressure building inside him.

“Bucky.” Steve’s breath is quick against Bucky’s lips.

“Yeah?” The huskiness of Bucky’s voice goes straight to Steve’s cock.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me you want it just as much.”

“I do, god, I do.” Bucky’s hand twines in Steve’s hair and pulls him forward, pressing their lips together. “I want you so much. Always wanted you.”

Then Bucky is kissing him again, and Steve loses himself in the feeling. Bucky’s hips are rolling against him with just as much vigor as Steve’s, his free hand roaming Steve’s body, drawing shivers from Steve as it goes. Steve never thought anyone’s hands could make him this aroused. His breath picks up as the pressure in his groin becomes impossible. He’s positively riding Bucky’s thigh, moaning and gasping into his mouth. Bucky ends the not-quite-a-kiss and nibbles his way down Steve’s jaw, settling his mouth on Steve’s neck. The angle is awkward because Bucky’s so much taller, but it’s worth it because, when Bucky’s teeth make contact with Steve’s sensitive skin, Steve’s hips buck, one, two, three more times and he’s coming in his pants like a thirteen-year-old. He grabs at Bucky, presses his head into his shoulder, breaths him in, and then Bucky is coming too, calling out Steve’s name, his body shuddering.

\-----

  
“The mating patterns of wild sloths are severely under-researched. Consequently, we know very little about the sloth reproduction system. The two-toed sloths and the three-toed sloths have been noticed to have very different mating patterns…”

Steve’s eyes start to flutter shut as the narrator of the documentary drones on about the differences between the two different types of sloths. He’s trying to keep awake, but he can’t say he cares enough about sloths to put any real effort into it. When he’s almost decided he doesn’t care one bit about these sad animals, Bucky speaks up.

“I remember.”

Something in his voice makes Steve’s attention snap back. He looks at Bucky,whose eyes are glued to the screen. One of the sloths is sniffing another sloth’s behind.

“Uhh?” is all Steve manages to say, still a bit fuzzy from the promise of sleep.

“I remember all the times I told you off for cussing.” Bucky flicks his eyes at Steve but looks back to the TV quickly. The male sloth is now awkwardly climbing the female. “And all the times I didn’t.”

Steve freezes on the spot. The only times Bucky didn’t tell him off was either when he was too shocked to do it or too...well, horny. Steve glances at the sloths gearing up for fucking. He looks at Bucky in disbelief. Did—did Bucky just remember their relationship while—while watching the most anatomically fucked up mammals getting it on?

“Uhh…” Steve says again, suddenly really, really uncomfortable with thinking about Bucky’s mouth and cock while sloth mating calls echo around their living room.

Silence settles between them as Steve tries to figure out what to say. So Bucky remembers. That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he only wants to talk about it. Maybe he only wants to clear up the memories, make sure what’s true and what isn’t. Should Steve just straight up tell him. Yeah, we were.... But what were they? They never defined it, really. Boyfriends? The word was too weak for what Bucky had always meant to him. Lovers? Partners? It was just him and Bucky. Steve’s Bucky and Bucky’s Steve.

“The actual deed itself is over and done with in under five seconds.” The narrator interrupts his thoughts. “It would appear that sex is the only thing that a sloth does quickly.”

“Switzerland.” Bucky’s voice cuts through the sad realities of sloth sex life. “Andermatt Gasthaus. I remember that.”

Steve fervently prays it wasn’t the comment about the sloth’s short performance that reminded Bucky of Switzerland. Yeah, maybe Steve didn’t last the longest, but really, associating the very good sex they had in that inn with sloth stamina was a low blow even for Bucky. And maybe Steve was reading too much into it, but Bucky was still resolutely staring at those stupid animals who looked like really well-used dusters having a nice cosy post-coitus on a tree, and Steve couldn’t tell if Bucky resented their relationship or if he thought it was weird or if he was about to tell Steve to never even think about touching him like that again. Steve knows he’s working himself up into a frenzy and that he’s bound to explode with words, when Bucky saves him.

“It was the last time we were together.” Bucky finally looks at him and Steve’s throat closes up. The noise of the television fades to a background shuffle, sloths completely forgotten, when Steve’s attention is swallowed by the depth of Bucky’s eyes. “I remember receiving new intel, getting sent to Austria. I remember...falling. I remember falling and thinking, just remember thinking that you said it. You’ve never said it before. Not like that. And once I was thinking of that, falling didn’t scare me much anymore.”

“Bucky.” God. He remembers that. Steve wants to reach out, he wants to take Bucky into his arms and hold him, nothing else. He wants to wrap his arms around him and squeeze out all the hurt and pain he went through. Brush his hair off his forehead, kiss his temple and tell him again. _I love you so fucking much, Buck._ Over and over and over again. He wants to say it with his mouth, with his hands, with his whole body. But he doesn’t know if Bucky feels the same. Steve went into ice and woke up like he was on the day he crashed. Bucky was frozen again and again and woke up a different man each time. Different to the point he didn’t recognize the first man who went under as himself. Steve lives his second life. Bucky lives his hundredth. And maybe dragging that love across decades was too hard on Bucky. Maybe it was easier—kinder—to let it go.

“Bucky, I don’t know what to say. I don’t—” Steve cuts off because he really doesn’t. He doesn’t have a clue what he wants to say. I still do? Every day. Every single day, even when I thought you were gone. Always, always, always. He tries again. “I don’t want you to think you need to do anything about it. I understand if you don’t want to—now. I don’t know what you want me to say here but, if it helps any, my answer to everything is yes. I do. I still do. Always. Till the end of the line and over and beyond.”

Steve’s heart is thumping against his ribcage. It feels good saying it, letting it out from the tight grip of his heart. He feels the prickle of tears in his eyes. He tries to brush them away but they fill in again. Bucky is looking at him as if he’s saying something new and curious, as if Bucky shouldn’t have already known all that, and Steve can’t bear the pain of ‘what if’ that blooms in his chest. Bucky moves. Slowly, deliberately, as if assessing his own desire. He moves until he’s hovering over Steve.

“I remember,” Bucky says again, low and quiet. “But I—I don’t know how it feels. Loving you like I used to. I don’t know if I’d like it.”

Steve’s heart doesn’t know whether to sink or soar. Bucky’s not saying no, but he’s not saying yes either, but a maybe is still more than he ever hoped for. A maybe is the sound of a promise. Maybe I could love you like I used to. Maybe I could love you different. Maybe I could love you new.

“Yeah.” Steve whispers. Bucky is so close he can smell him. His floral shampoo is gentle in Steve’s nostrils, but the scent that is all Bucky is clear and sharp below it. “Okay. That’s okay.”

“We can try.” Bucky wets his lips. They glisten and Steve can’t look away.

“Try,” he echos.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s lips are only a breath away. “Test it. Reject or confirm the hypothesis.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes. Bucky’s hand snakes around his neck and small pinpricks run down the nerve endings in his back, the warmth of Bucky’s palm reigniting their long lost function. “What’s the hypothesis?”

“That I do, too. Still.”

“So.” Steve gulps because Bucky is so close, so warm. “How will we test it?”

Steve barely has the time to draw in a hitched breath before Bucky’s lips are on his and his lungs momentarily lose their ability to function. Bucky gasps against his mouth and Steve, abandoning all self-control, wraps his arm around Bucky’s waist, twists, and pulls him on top of him. It feels right. It feels right like it always did, no matter the bodies they had. He opens his mouth and deepens the kiss, revelling in how Bucky still kisses like _Bucky_. Going from gentle kisses to hard nibbles, from sliding against him effortlessly, to grinding into him demandingly. His body is new, heavier, and the metal arm in Steve’s hair is slightly colder than normal, but the kisses are Bucky through and through.

When Bucky pulls back, his lips are their usual post-kissing red. Steve runs a finger over them, marvelling at the familiar shape. Curved and pliant as always.

“So...” He looks into Bucky’s eyes. The mask is off. He looks curious. Gentle. Vulnerable. Raw. “Where does the hypothesis stand?”

“Further testing is necessary.” Bucky answers truthfully. “But for now it’s standing pretty firm.”

Steve doesn’t mind the need for further testing. Bucky can take all the time he needs, the test subject will be (wanton) and willing.

  
\-----

  
When their vehicle finally pulls up into what can only be called civilization in a really broad sense of the word, Steve finally feels like he can breathe again. Like he can rest. Like he can let the nervous tension seep out of him. _Andermatt Gasthaus_ , is written on the white facade of the rather large inn. The commandos cheer at the sight and jump onto the road, the prospect of alcohol and possibly some Swiss ladies improving their mood considerably. They deserve it after the shit they just went through in Italy. Steve looks at them, his men. Stronger and braver than he could have ever hoped for. Right up Steve’s alley with their amount of crazy too. He grins, and ushers them all in.

They settle behind a table and start drinking. Dugan’s as loud as ever, his laughter booming, and Dernier’s French is more and more slurred with every drink. Soon, even Jones can barely understand him. Morita is the only one who has the sense to pace himself and only looks slightly happier after half an hour, instead of ecstatic.

Bucky, on the other hand, is matching Dugan’s drinking pace even though Dum Dum’s almost twice heavier. It shows too. His cheeks are pink and his mouth deliciously red as he downs another shot of schnapps in one go and slams it on the table. Steve can’t help but record every single movement of his neck, every single gulp of his throat. It’s been so long since they had any time for themselves, bar a few quick gropes in a tent or a snog or two in the woods. He sucked Bucky off behind a tank a week ago, and Bucky had returned the favor but, fuck, Steve needs more, and from the very second they set foot into the inn, with the promise of a warm room and a firm roof over their heads, all he’s been able to think about was Bucky naked on his bed. Naked and flushed and _his_.

Steve’s staring must be obvious because Bucky looks at him, eyes heating up. He turns his gaze away quickly and licks his lips, the amber liquid having made them glistening and sweet. He slides his tongue across his upper lip and then—unnecessarily—over his teeth and Steve knows it’s all for show. All for him. The heat of his entire body settles in his groin. By the smirk that stretches across Bucky’s face he knows it too. Steve wishes he could get dead drunk too.

Instead, he watches as Bucky’s hands become more wilder and his gaze more and more unfocused. What the hell is he thinking getting drunk so fast? When his inebriation passes every semblance of good taste and he looks ready to topple over, chair included, Steve stands up and hauls him from his seat.

“Okay, that’s enough. I am putting you to bed.”

Dugan roars with laughter while Falsworth giggles at what a lightweight their Sergeant is. Bucky shows them the finger and waves it in the air, his coordination so bad he almost costs Steve his eye.

“Okay, let’s go.” Steve throws Bucky’s arm over his shoulders. “What the hell were you thinking trying to match Dugan?”

Bucky’s hot breath is on his ear as Steve half drags, half carries him towards the staircase leading to their rooms. “I wanted to buy us some time.” Steve shivers as Bucky exhales. “Some time alone.”

“A load of good, that’ll do,” Steve says, low. “You can barely walk, much less get it up.”

“I’m not drunk.”

Steve wants to roll his eyes and laugh, but the way Bucky’s voice goes from slurred to level is way too convincing. He looks at him, and Bucky’s eyes truly are clear, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

“I’m not,” he repeats when they round the corner. The corridor is empty and Bucky lets his palm slide from Steve’s shoulder down his spine. It settles heavy on the small of his back. “Had to make a fast exit. Wanted to fuck you while you were still in your uniform.”

Steve swallows heavily. He’s never gonna make it with Bucky looking at him like that. Heat pools in his belly when Bucky’s eyes slide down the blue fabric. They stop at the white star. Bucky wets his lips. Steve wants to kiss him right there against the hallway wall, hot and wet and dangerous and desperate.

Instead, he turns away and starts hauling Bucky up the stairs. His body’s still heavy, continuing to act the part. He should get a role in one of those Hollywood movies. Cary Grant good, he is. Handsome too.

After Steve searches his pockets for keys for a whole minute, Bucky’s previous excitement for the uniform vanishes, and he starts to cuss out Stark’s stupid multi-pocket design. When Steve finally lets the door close behind him, Bucky is on him, pressing their foreheads together. Steve’s hands fumble, not knowing where to land, wanting to touch everywhere at once. Bucky’s breath tingles against his lips, the smell of alcohol distinct.

“You should be drunk,” he says, pulling away slightly. “I know you’re no lightweight, but I saw how many shots you drank and it’s more than you can handle.”

Bucky’s eyes don’t really meet his as he says, “Guess Swiss schnapps just sucks.”

There’s something Bucky’s not telling him, something Steve feels has been weighing on him for months. He wants to press the issue, but Bucky drops his lips on his neck, just below his ear, and all thoughts of talking vanish when he feels Bucky’s stubble on his sensitive skin.

“Oh,” is all he manages, and then Bucky’s mouth is biting down on the juncture of his neck and jaw and all he can think about is how long he’s wanted this. No hurry, no hiding, no fear, only Bucky’s mouth and body and time, taking his mind off the horrors they’ve witnessed, using their bodies for love, instead pain. He clutches at Bucky’s hip and slides his other hand into his hair. He pulls him back and kisses him like he’s wanted to kiss him all along. Hungry, desperate, pouring out all that he can’t put into words, letting him know how much he misses him, how much he wants this every day, every single day till the end of their lives. Till the end of the line.

“Bucky,” he whispers against his lips, biting down. “God, Bucky, I—”

“Shh,” Bucky presses their heads together again. “I know, Stevie, I know.”

Bucky slides down, his eyes never leaving Steve as he travels along the line of Steve’s body. When he’s kneeling, he bites his lip and, _fuck_ , Bucky looks so good. His mouth is red from kissing, and Steve is reminded of their first kiss, of Bucky’s lips smudged with lipstick, of his uncertain eyes, of his hitched breath when their tongues finally met. The Bucky kneeling before him is much more certain as he presses his lips to the bulge in Steve’s crotch and mouths at his cock through the hard cloth. Steve can hardly feel anything, he’s wearing his combat gear after all, but the mere image of it makes him impossibly hard.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers, sliding his strong hands up Steve’s thighs. “I’ve wanted to do this ever since I first saw you in this stupid walking flag.”

“I thought you, ahh,” Steve sighs when Bucky palms him firmly through the fabric, “appreciated the uniform.”

“I’ll appreciate defiling it even more, _Captain_.” It shouldn’t be hot, but Steve shivers. Perhaps it’s because he knows Bucky’s the only person in the entire world who would never forget who Steve really is. Perhaps it’s the thought of defiling. Probably, it’s that.

Bucky’s hands make quick work with the zipper, and he pulls Steve’s cock out. It should be obscene—and maybe it is—both of them in their non-standard military-issue uniforms, but uniforms nonetheless, doing the thing the military would have them prosecuted for. It feels good. A nice fuck you to everyone who ever told them, who ever implied, this kind of love is worth less.

Steve touches Bucky’s cheek, cups it in his palm, and slides his thumb over his eyebrow, his cheekbone. Handsome. Beautiful. Everything.

Bucky doesn’t leave him much time for contemplation. He wraps his mouth around Steve’s cock and swallows it down, as far as it goes, without warning. Steve’s head bangs against the door. He doesn’t give a damn. His hips buck into the hot, wet mouth, and he has to swallow down a loud moan. It comes out as a soft whine all the same. He won’t last thirty seconds like this. Bucky licks and sucks, his hands squeezing Steve’s thighs whenever Steve’s thrusts get too enthusiastic and his cock hits the back of Bucky’s throat. He twines his fingers in Bucky’s hair, torn between pushing him down and pulling him away because he’s so close and he can’t come yet.

“No, Buck,” he gets out, tightening the hold in Bucky’s hair. “Buck, shit, slow down or I’m gonna come.” But Bucky, like usual, doesn’t listen. Instead, he wraps his hand around the base of Steve’s cock and strokes while his lips wrap around the head, and no willpower could stop Steve from coming then.

“Fuck. Jesu—fuck.” He gasps as his hips twitch forward, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s pretty, hot mouth as he orgasms, lets go for a few precious few seconds of bliss. If it hadn’t been for the door behind him he would have fallen over. Bucky licks the head of his cock and Steve shivers, sensitive. He pulls him up and kisses him, tastes his come on Bucky’s lips, on his tongue. It’s so fucking dirty, so fucking good. “Jesus fucking Christ, Buck,” he says again, because he doesn’t know what to say, how to say how fucking brilliant that mouth is, how fucking good to him.

Bucky’s lips are hot on his ear, his crotch rubbing against Steve’s hip, his hardness more than obvious. “Say it again,” he whispers.

“What?”

“Tell me how fucking good my mouth is.” Steve didn’t know he said that part out loud.

“God, Buck.” Bucky’s tongue is on his earlobe, making Steve shiver. “So good, Bucky, so fucking good. The best goddamn mouth in Brooklyn and it’s mine. You’re so good to me, Bucky, so fucking good.”

Steve’s hands glide down Bucky’s back until they settle on his arse and he pulls him further in, letting Bucky ride his thigh, revelling in the soft gasps against his ear.

“God, Rogers, you and your filthy mouth.”

“I see you don’t mind it filthy when it’s your tongue that makes me cuss.”

“Nah.” Bucky tangles his hand in Steve’s hair and pulls his head back. He grazes his teeth down Steve’s Adam’s apple, to his collarbone. He bites down. “Don’t mind if you do it when you’re dressed in this.” He traces the white star. “Captain America, cussing with his patriotic mouth while his dick is down my throat. Doing dishonor to the uniform.”

“It’s still me you know?” Steve says, but his voice is hitched and his cock is already reacting again. “All of this.”

“I know it is, Steve. You were always a hero. But this.” Bucky traces the line of his jaw, his chin. He drags his palm across Steve’s chest. “They went and made you all pretty. A fucking window display of virtue to salivate over.”

He traces Steve’s nose— _that big cucumber you call a nose, Rogers_ — presses his thigh further between Steve’s knees. “I hate what they did to you because before you were mine and now you’re the world’s. And now I can’t even fuck you against a wall like I used to.”

Steve pins Bucky in place with his gaze and lets a satisfied smirk stretch his lips. “But I can.”

Steve’s hands curls around Bucky’s biceps, and he pushes him back, away from the hallway wall and against the outer one because, yes, Steve might be horny as fuck, but he’s still not ready to risk it. Bucky’s eyes are wide when Steve finally presses him against the cold stone. His breath catches. Steve leans in, bites Bucky’s jaw and mumbles against his skin, “I’ll show you what this window display can do.”

In one sweep he’s scooping up Bucky’s legs, settling them against his hips and pressing Bucky harder into the wall. Steve is already hard again. In that moment, the serum seems like the world’s best invention.

“How’s that sound?” He speaks practically against Bucky’s cheek, pushing his very obvious sign of renewed arousal against Bucky’s arse.

“Sounds good.” Bucky’s legs are tight around Steve. “But you can hardly fuck me through the clothes. Wouldn’t be too sexy if I had a hole in my pants even if it was from a supersoldier cock.”

Steve laughs. “Seems pretty sexy to me,” he says and, because he feels impatient, licks Bucky’s cheek. He lets go of Bucky’s legs, steps away, takes off his shoes and starts undoing the buckles in his uniform. Bucky follows with removing his own clothes.

“Oh, you’re really going to hate the uniform now,” Steve says when Bucky is almost completely naked already and Steve is still unbuttoning and unzipping. Bucky only smirks, watching Steve’s fingers until they finally manage to remove the top. His blue eyes roam over Steve’s body, from his shoulders, across his chest, his abs, to the top of his pants. A shiver runs down Steve’s spine. Bucky steps closer, brushes his knuckles over Steve’s collarbone before sliding them down over his nipple.

“There really is something to say about the quality of your tits,” Bucky grins, leans in, and bites Steve’s nipple. Hard. Steve yelps, but proceeds to divest himself of his pants and underwear as quickly as he can. As soon as they hit the floor he steps closer to Bucky, touches him all over. He runs his hand through Bucky’s chest hair, like he’d wanted to for so long. He slides his hands down his back, simply touching, simply feeling Bucky.

Bucky presses their chests together, skin to skin, and licks Steve’s earlobe. “So…” his voice is husky, all velvet. His tongue dips into Steve’s ear, wet and hot, and Steve groans. Fuck. “You, me, and the wall?”

Bucky raises his hand between them, a jar of Vaseline clutched between his fingers, his eyebrow cocked suggestively. Steve immediately heaves Bucky up around his hips backing him against the wall again. He kisses him, deep and hungry.

“Finger yourself for me,” he breathes against Bucky’s lips.

He feels more than hears Bucky gulp. Steve glances down. Bucky’s cock is hard against his stomach. Bucky only nods, unscrews the cap on the jar and dips his fingers in. He reaches back, behind himself, and Steve bets the angle is all weird, but Bucky’s pupils are blown wide as he brushes a finger against his opening. Steve knows exactly when Bucky’s finger slides into his assby the way Bucky’s eyebrows draw together.

“That’s right, Buck,” Steve encourages even though Bucky doesn’t need encouragement. He twists his hand, and, judging by the way his breathing changes, he’s added another finger. “God, Bucky, look at you. So handsome. So fucking pretty.”

Steve holds him close, one arm behind Bucky’s back, while he brings the other one around to smooth Bucky’s frown away with his thumb. He kisses him, soft this time. “So fucking good to me, Bucky. So good.”

Bucky never takes his eyes off Steve as he moans and rocks back on his fingers. Steve helps as much as he can, positioning them so they’re most comfortable even though his legs are starting to burn. It doesn’t matter when it’s Bucky looking like that, his cock leaking precome onto the trail of hair on his stomach.

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is strained. “Please, fuck, please.” Steve just nods, dips his fingers into the jar Bucky’s still holding, and sloppily lubes up his cock. He pushes the jar out of Bucky’s hands, letting it tumble and roll across the wooden floor. Bucky brings his lube-slicked hand back around and wraps it around Steve’s neck. After a few failed tries, Steve finally aligns his cock with Bucky’s hole and presses in, slowly, giving Bucky time to adjust. God, it feels so good, being wrapped by Bucky in every sense of the word. He knows he’s moaning loudly, but he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. It’s been so long since they did this. Months.

“Fuck.” Bucky presses his face into Steve’s shoulder. “So good, feels so good.”

Steve slides all the way in, adjusts his hold on Bucky, leans them more firmly against the wall, and pulls out, only to slide back in, this time with more force. God, he wants to do this every day. Every single day, just feeling Bucky, feeling his body move against his, listening to his hitched breaths, to the beat of his thrumming heart. He pulls back, pressing Bucky’s shoulders against the wall. Suddenly, urgently, he needs to let Bucky know just how much he wants this. Bucky looks at him, lips open and wet, his eyes clouded with arousal.

“Bucky,” Steve speaks softly. His hips stop moving. Bucky rolls his, urging him on, but Steve needs to let him know. Bucky’s hair is wet and sticking to his forehead. Steve brushes it away, tracing his knuckles down Bucky’s cheeks, his jaw. “I just need you to know. I need you to know that I love you. I love you so fucking much, Buck.”

Bucky makes a strangled noise in his throat. “Stevie,” he finally manages to say. Bucky tangles his fingers in Steve’s hair, pulls him in against his lips. “You know I do, too. You know I do, Stevie. So fucking much.”

He kisses him, and if Steve hadn’t believed his words he would have believed his kiss. Bucky rolls his hips again, taking Steve’s cock deeper, and then they’re moving, faster, more hurried. Steve grips Bucky tightly, pulling him down on his cock harder with every thrust. Bucky is gasping into his neck, biting, licking, moaning, and Steve thinks he could come from the sound alone. He’s driving into Bucky hard now, practically ramming him against the wall and, fuck, it feels so good, and he really can’t fucking hold off longer, it’s been too damn long.

Bucky fists his cock, pressing his lips to Steve’s again, just breathing against him, unable to kiss him for the hurried breaths leaving his lungs. Steve presses their foreheads together, sweaty and hot, and then he’s coming, his hips snapping hard against Bucky’s ass. He spills inside Bucky, body shaking, wracked with shivers of pleasure leaving his groin and spreading through his body, hot and tingling. Legs trembling from orgasm, he somehow still manages to hold Bucky up, and it’s not long before Bucky’s coming too, his moans reverberating against Steve’s lips in a song that settles right in his bones, an evergreen melody.

 

\-----

  
Steve sighs, content, turning his head slightly, so that he can kiss Bucky’s sternum. Then he goes back to lying with his head on Bucky’s chest while Bucky’s flesh fingers trail aimlessly through Steve’s hair. They’re both sweaty and sticky, but Steve can’t be arsed to move. His position is giving him a great view of the drops of come on Bucky’s stomach. His come. An urge to touch it and smear it over Bucky’s abs grips him, but he resists because that would be weird. Sexy though. In fact, he can’t resist it and raises his arm, about to push his fingers right in when Bucky’s metal hand slaps it away.

“Really?” Bucky asks exasperated, but his stomach shakes as he chuckles. “I’m sticky enough as it is.”

Steve smiles. Silence settles between them, but there’s something Steve has been dying to ask Bucky about now that his memories are mostly all back.

“Bucky,” Steve interrupts the silence. “You never did tell me exactly why you decided to take it upon you to stop me cussing.” Bucky is quiet for a moment before he answers.

“I don’t know.” Bucky’s hand leaves Steve’s hair and trails down his shoulder. “It’s just… remember how your ma used to talk about heaven a lot? I always thought, out of the two of us, if anyone’s making it to heaven, it’s gonna be you. So I decided to make sure of it. Took it upon me, as a job, not to drag you in hell with me. Starting with your terrible mouth seemed like a good start.”

  
“Jeez, Bucky.” Steve can’t help but roll his eyes. Bucky must know he did because he pinches him. “When did you decide that? When you were like, six?”

“Give me some credit, Steve, I was a smart boy. I decided when I was five and three quarters.”

“Yeah, it shows.” Bucky pinches him harder this time. After a pause Steve continues.

“What about now? Do you still believe in going to heaven?” He trails his hand down Bucky’s side, reaching over to Bucky’s left to entwine his fingers with the metal ones.

“I don’t know.” The shoulder under him moves with a faint shrug. “And if it exists, I’m not so sure if I’d let you go there without me anymore. Might just as well drag you to hell with me. I’m selfish like that now.”

“I’m glad.” Steve says, squeezing, knowing that Bucky can feel it, even if faintly.

“But at this point,” Bucky continues, “I’ll be happy if I can even die. We’re like cockroaches, Steve. Just refuse to be killed.”

Steve laughs. It really does seem that way. No matter what the world throws at them, they keep on kicking. With Bucky by his side, even the cockroach life seems perfect. He lets the comfortable silence envelop them for a moment, but then he thinks of something again.

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve says again. This time he props himself up so that he can look at him. “What’s with the hypothesis? Confirmed or rejected?”

“Hmm,” Bucky pretends to ponder on the question. “No, still can’t say. I believe further testing is still required.”

“Oh, really?” Steve shakes his head, grinning. “Don’t you think the scientist got a bit sidetracked by the experiments? Just asking, you know. Tony always says peer review is important.”

“Peer review?” Bucky’s eyebrows knit together.

“Yeah.”

“Are you saying Tony Stark should peer review our love life? Because we might have said till the end of the line, but a threesome with Stark is far, far, far beyond that line.”

“What?” Steve hears himself squeak, cringing. “No! Jeez. No, we are not having a threesome with Tony. Eww, Buck. Thanks. I can’t unsee it now. This is the worst thing you’ve ever said to me. I merely thought that the scientist—you—might not be entirely objective and that a peer reviewer would expose that fault in the experiments.”

“I thought the test subject was enjoying the experiments?” Bucky cocks his eyebrow.

“Oh, he is.” Steve smirks slowly. He presses a soft kiss to Bucky’s lips before settling back down on his chest. “He definitely is.”

Bucky tangles his fingers in Steve’s hair again and strokes his scalp. The sun is about to set on the lazy autumn afternoon, and the stray rays of late sunshine trace golden lines onto the white wall. They are warm and sated and happy. No one knows what tomorrow will throw at them, but right now, they are happy. Steve’s eyes are about to fall closed when Bucky presses a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“So fucking much, Stevie,” he mumbles into his hair. “Always so fucking much.”

Steve snuggles closer, enjoying the warmth of Bucky’s words. Bucky loves him just like he used to, but he also loves him different and new, and Steve knows that no matter how Bucky loves him, he will always love back just as much too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've come to the end! I hope you enjoyed reading the fic as much as I did writing it. It's my first Stucky fic and I have to say this pairing gives me ALL the feels. Hopefully, I'll be back with more content soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Like any writer I love comments! *big heart eyes*
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as [synonym-for-life](https://synonym-for-life.tumblr.com/) if that's your preferred platform.
> 
> If you liked the fic here is a [gifset I made for it](https://synonym-for-life.tumblr.com/post/182398693834/i-remember-bucky-says-again-low-and-quiet) and here is [the post](https://synonym-for-life.tumblr.com/post/182382581646/chapter-33-the-path-to-heaven-is-paved-with) in case you want to share it on your blog <3


End file.
